


ACE OF HUNGERS

by vois



Series: marsh-mired in dreams of sustenance [1]
Category: Densetsu no Yuusha no Densetsu | The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vois/pseuds/vois
Summary: It's nothing more than animal instinct. To slaughter, to copulate, to feast. To rend blood from flesh and marrow from bone like some frenzied beast. To snarl and rut like dogs in heat. To gorge himself on the taste until there is nothing, nothing, nothing...There is nothing so strange about what they are doing. Really.
Relationships: Lucile Eris/Miran Froaude
Series: marsh-mired in dreams of sustenance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625566
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	ACE OF HUNGERS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idola/gifts).



Lucile pins him down elegantly, with a swift and unnecessary twist of his legs. One moment Miran is lashing out messily, and he is dodging; the next, he has twisted gracefully, like an acrobat or some sinuous, winding beast, and hooked one thigh about Miran’s waist. The other kicks up so that the back of his calf is pressed against Miran’s shoulder, and then - then, the ground is rushing up to meet him. 

Lucile does not bother to soften the impact… much. Miran’s skull cracks against the back of his hand rather than the ground, but the rest of his body is not so fortunate. He hisses at the way the buttons and seams of his clothing dig into his skin, and the way that the ground beneath him will mark his clothing, and most of all how Lucile gives his hair a firm, punishing yank when retrieving his hand…

Miran flexes his fingers, trying to judge which parts of Lucile’s body would grant him the most leverage. Does he jab or yank? Push or pull? In this position he really cannot see much of their bodies, only the upper half of Lucile’s torso. It is highly reminiscent of what he sees when Lucile rides him, except for the part where they are both - unfortunately, considering the way his belt is cutting into his hips right now - clothed. 

“Do you yield,” Lucile says, and Miran imagines that he is actually asking “do you yield to  _ me _ ,” which is a line he hears often in his own mind if nowhere else. Lucile does not lack subtlety. There is no need for him to add such redundant and unnecessary words, considering that Miran yields to one man alone, in spirit if not body, and. 

And he yields to another man, alone, in body.

He is certain that Lucile knows and understands this, better than Miran himself. There is no need for whatever exists between them in the first place, and there is no need for it to extend to this point, the point that Miran is irritated by how easily his losses are delivered each and every time, irritated not for himself - he has lost often, and easily, against other military giants and supernatural beasts - but rather because… because he wants to surprise Lucile? Because he has the sense that Lucile, like him, would prefer for battles to be hard-won rather than easy? Because of the thought that Miran might, in their encounters, be disappointing?

Lucile presses a hand to his cheek. It is the same hand that cradled his head when he fell, and will likely be the same hand that cradles his skull someday. Eventually. Inevitably. Miran bares his teeth.

“Mm.” Lucile crouches down. It is impossible to tell what he is thinking, but Miran has the insight that he may, perhaps, be… like an unruly pet in Lucile’s eyes. A feisty and foolish little stray that cannot understand how the intentions of a larger, far more powerful species could ever be benevolent. Like the garter snake that hisses at the warmth of an open door, or the mangy dog biting the hand that proffers the bone scrap… 

Lucile is tracing his jawline. Lucile’s hand is drawing nearer to… Miran hates to disappoint. Lucile has been holding back, yes, but hasn’t he as well? He thinks back to some of the scenes he had witnessed during his time in the military. Can he truthfully say that he has fought to the most of his ability? No. When he has seen men reduced to beasts through nothing but fear and instinct, when he has seen them injure themselves wild and thrashing in simple traps, when he has seen men of the same uniform tear into each other to create a carcass to hide beneath - when he has seen all that and mimicked none of it...? How dare he even  _ think _ such a thing.

If his opponent is such an inhuman monster then should Miran himself not become a terrible beast, to face him properly? To face him meaningfully? To grant them both the dignity of a legitimate opponent, a legitimate match of opponents - 

“What are you thinking…?” Lucile murmurs. There is a faint crease to his brow, and he certainly cannot be  _ pouting _ but there is a curve to his lips that Miran finds most appealing. “Your expression… ”

Does it show his desires? Does it show his newfound conviction? Does it read as something different entirely, since behavior varies across species until goodwill is seen as hostility, animosity as amicable welcoming - 

Please. Please. He will welcome Lucile Eris to shed his blood, amicably.

Lucile flattens his palms against Miran’s chest and lowers himself so that their lips are nearly brushing. He can feel his own breath, hot in the small space between Lucile’s mouth and his own. He can feel both their breaths, trapped, intermingling. Ghosts pacing the same cage. 

“Miran Froaude,” Lucile mouths. If there is any voice or sound to the movements of his lips, it is only in Miran’s most outlandish imaginings. “Miran Froaude, what are you thinking?”

Miran tilts his chin back as best as he can, feeling the dirt against his scalp like a beast in the mud, and cracks their heads together. Lucile doesn’t rear back so much as allow himself to be pushed. All of this, it is only happening because he allows it, or that is how it is supposed to be. Because of this, Miran finds himself wanting. Because of this, Miran finds himself wanting.

Let me. Let me, let me, let me shed your blood, let me shed it amicably.

Miran rolls his torso up and off of the ground and does his best to flip their positions. It is more grotesque than graceful, and he lands on all fours like an animal. His footing is shaky and he can feel dirt building under his claws. His fingertips ache from the strain and the angle and for all of Miran’s struggling Lucile pushes himself up just as easily. There is no dirt to be seen on his robes or his leggings or even the edges of his slippers as he lifts his legs, brushing them against Miran’s hips so tantalizingly, as if he were to wrap them around his waist - but then he draws them in further, knees against his chest, and kicks upwards.

It’s strong enough to lift him to his feet. Miran steadies himself, swaying, and by the time he looks up Lucile is already standing. He is standing, calm and pristine with his hands behind his back, and, and, Miran wants nothing more than to see him bleed.

He lunges.

He lunges and they grapple with each other, or rather Miran grapples  _ at _ Lucile. He claws at the air for Lucile vanishes easily. Perhaps he is moving too slowly. Perhaps there are metal teeth sinking into his ankles. Perhaps Lucile is predicting every move, every thought, everything. Wreathing himself in shadows does nothing to conceal the core of his being from Lucile's eyes, closed yet all-seeing. Miran throws himself about, thrashes as if his heirloom let him  _ become _ a monster rather than summon them. He does not think it is his imagination, that the shadows are melding to his body. That he is moving quicker. More purposefully. He does not think it his imagination that Lucile is on the defensive now, rather than waiting with amusement for a maggot with its toys. He does not think it is his imagination, that Lucile is allowing - Lucile is allowing - 

No, he is moving forward, and he is taking - 

Whatever Lucile thinks does not show on his face, but he suddenly pivots. Like a dancer in a chain, he is moving around Miran far too swiftly. There is only the briefest sting in Miran's palm before the flames cloaking him die and his ring goes flying. Before he can hear it land, Lucile strikes again, with that same hand. That same hand that cradled his cheek, and Miran opens his mouth and snaps his teeth and from the jolt Lucile gives, he must see  _ something _ in Miran's face that shocks him, only, only.

Miran bites down on the edge of Lucile's palm, and Lucile doesn't even stop to breathe. His momentum carries him forward and his flesh tears in seconds, spilling hot blood across Miran's jaw. Across his teeth. Between them.

It doesn't stop there. They're slammed up against a brick wall before Miran can think to move away. Lucile has him pinned again, but this time with his entire body. He can feel Lucile's chest moving, faintly, in a demon's imitation of breathing. He wonders what Lucile is feeling.

"Oh," Lucile sighs, and then exhales, as if he were relieved. "Oh, Miran. How fortunate I am that you have come before me, on this day where I am so very..."

He pulls back. There is a tearing sound, the last flap of skin connecting... Miran's eyes widen, and the skin finishes peeling away before he can open his jaw. A strip of Lucile's forearm and - and a finger - dangles from his mouth for a moment, before slipping past his lips. 

It hits the ground with a wet, vulgar noise. Miran's cock twitches and suddenly he is aware that he is…  _ quite _ … stiff. And has likely been so for some time.

Lucile looks at him, considering. Then he steps boldly into the mess on the ground, and rises up onto the tips of his toes to give him a kiss. Miran does not tilt his head down to meet him, so Lucile holds onto his shoulders to close that last small distance. 

"...is that how I taste?" Lucile has never had cause to ask something like that before. For the cause, this first time, to be something so gruesome is simply… Miran cannot withhold a shudder. And Lucile must notice, because he laughs. He laughs, softly. Softly and smoothly, like his skin sliding between Miran's teeth.

"You know, I wonder about you sometimes," Lucile says conversationally. Miran swallows. The thick mix of his saliva and Lucile's blood, and little bits of… it leaves a strange feeling in his throat even after it goes down. Down, into his stomach, and Miran will be able to digest this part of him. Perhaps like the weight on his tongue the feeling will remain. The thought is enthralling.

It is not as though he has not tasted Lucile before, he reasons. It is not even as though he has never before swallowed down his cum or his spit, so why must this be so different? Why must this feel, all at once, so indecent and so invigorating?

"Is that so? And what is it that you are wondering?"

His voice sounds thick and rich and somehow red when he speaks. Distantly he recalls a legend from the west, wherein one could attain the years of a woman's life if they drank of her veins and ate of her meat. Did the tradition refer to the Goddesses? Did it also apply to the demons, their enemies? Does it hold true here and now, for Lucile with Miran? For the part of Lucile within him?

Lucile only laughs at him, and trails a hand down his torso to pet his cock. So he had noticed, then. Of course he had.

"Perhaps it is presumptuous of me," Lucile continues as if he had not said anything. Then he steps back, and the cold of night rushes to fill the space between them. "But Miran Froaude, I wish you sweet dreams."

Then he vanishes. 

Miran is not alarmed. This is something of a regular occurrence, after all. All the same, he finds himself frustrated. Wanting. Disappointed, maybe? Lucile has no obligation to him, and certainly not after such a display, but all the same… 

He departs quickly. It will take some time to reach his estate, and at some point the sky had grown dark without his realizing. Miran knows he will need to wring himself dry if he hopes to sleep tonight, and even then it is unlikely to be a restful sleep.

Oh, did Lucile know? Is that why he had deigned to say something so mundane upon his departure? Miran cannot say that he is pleased, but it is fair enough.

After all, all deeds between them will be repaid in kind.


End file.
